


Monstrous Things (Crowley/Reader)

by In_Wolfs_Clothing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Demons, F/M, Heaven, Hell, Hunting, Reader Insert, Slow Burn, Supernatural - Freeform, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Wolfs_Clothing/pseuds/In_Wolfs_Clothing
Summary: "I sold my soul to a three piece, and he told me I was holy." (Spoilers for Season 8 of Supernatural)





	1. Prologue - Slaves

**// 0.0**   
_tw: domestic abuse, suggestions of self-harm, depression_

 

        She never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body.

        The closest she ever got to physically hurting you was the one time she harshly tugged at your hair, frustrated with your whining as she braided it. The closest she ever got to physically hurting you was the one time she giggled, swaying and half-naked in her bed, as she leaned over and brushed her teeth against the flesh of your arm.

        She never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body.

        But that didn’t mean she was innocent. Although the only visible evidence of her destruction was the way you cowered at the sight of alcohol, and how you cried over movie scenes with a missing parent, that didn’t mean she was innocent.

        Because your earliest memories of her include her having sex with a man in the same room you were trying to sleep in. She had told you to just pull the blanket over your head and close your eyes. Because your earliest memories of her include strange men filtering in, and then disappearing. One had lectured you about how to treat a woman, but the things he taught you led to an out of school suspension after you strangled a child at the simple age of 5.

        But that didn’t mean she was a monster, either. She had made bad decisions, and she had inflicted wounds that any regular person couldn’t see. But she was your _mother_ , and you cherished the moments when she treated you like her daughter instead of a piece of property.

        Because your earliest memories of her include the way she painted a sky scenery upon your nursery walls. At the time, you had still been in a crib, but the beauty was uncanny. Because your earliest memories of her include the glow in the dark stars she helped you stick onto your ceiling so that you wouldn’t be scared of the dark.

        She had loved you, even if some believed that she had done monstrous things to you. Even if you wrote poems of her words being your demise, she had loved you. And even if you hid from the person she became after your eleventh birthday, she had loved you.

        She had loved you in ways that most couldn’t see. In ways that only you could see. Because nobody else experienced her worst night and then woke up the next day to pancakes that smelt like genuine “I’m sorry”s. Because nobody else experienced her when it was just the two of you - when she was small, and open, and she looked at you with soft, sober eyes. She had loved you in ways that were so miniscule, it was no surprise when people didn’t understand why you couldn’t just hate her.

        Because she never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body.

        But she destroyed your dreams, and your ego. And when you admitted that you wanted to be an author, she told you to remember that she liked extra salt on her fries. Those words stuck with you as you filtered through writing contests that you could enter, each one echoing, “You think this will be a good income?” You were only 13. And when you told her that you wanted to seek therapy, she scoffed and muttered about how teenagers were so much weaker than they had been in her time. You had been sleeping 40% of the day, for two months, and you had been skipping meals for five. In three weeks, you lost six pounds, but gained twenty new scars. You had been crying yourself to sleep for four months, and secluding yourself from her for four years.

        Because she never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body.

        But your therapist found the situation so desperate that she encouraged you to move in with your biological father, whom had been divorced from your mother since before you were born. When she had asked you to draw all the people you would take on a boat that would sail to a happy life, you left your maternal counterpart out of the picture. When it came down to the very broad source of your various ego and mental issues, you noticed she scribbled down something small in her notes, but underlined it three times. It was one word, and it was, “Mother.”

        Because she had loved you. But you began to doubt that as you entered your teenage years. Because you were far from dim, and if your childhood of seeing your mother with various men had taught you anything, it was that people often use other people.

        She controlled you. It took a couple years to fully see her grip, but you always felt it. You always _knew_ , somewhere deep within yourself. You always knew what she was doing, and what she was capable of, and for most of your life you had chosen to ignore it. You had thought that all parents were strict, all parents got wasted in the evenings, all parents wouldn’t bother concealing their sounds of pleasure, or crude, sexual jokes.

        You slipped into depression as the realization dawned on you that all those stories about alcoholics described the people you shared a home with. That your friends always talked about sleepovers and being at the park alone because that’s what a parent would do if they trusted their child. That other adults chose more private settings for half-lidded eyes and slippery tongues.

        And as you got older, the tighter her grip became. Suddenly, she was reading through your texts and responding to your friends, pretending to be you. Suddenly, she was keeping you home on prom night because she was convinced you weren’t “just friends” with the person paying for half of your ticket. Suddenly, she was handing your mobile device to your step-father to smash in half because you stood up for your real father, whom you could only contact by a telephone call. Suddenly, she was forcing you out of your room to face the coffee table that was cluttered with two dozen empty and crushed beer cans that they had only bought that afternoon. Suddenly, she was promising to get better, and then came home stumbling and unable to get up four steps. Suddenly, she was never proud of anything you did, from artwork to the advanced class you were invited into. Suddenly, she was criticizing you for all your worries, and all the times you tried to cry on her shoulder.

        She had loved you, but in such miniscule ways that even you were beginning to struggle to see them. She had loved you, but in such miniscule ways that it never made up for the times that she acted like she hadn’t.

        Because when you decided to fly halfway across America, and two thousand miles away from her, you found yourself laughing along with your father. You found peaceful nights that lacked tossing and turning. You found yourself sitting alone at a swimming pool, content with the solitude and no parental supervision.

        But when you decided that your therapist was right, that you needed to move in with your father, you fell under her control again. Although there was 2,000 miles between you, you spent hours in the dark, covering the carpet in damp tissues after everyone had gone to sleep. You spent many days indulging yourself in a laptop rather than your family. You spent many days, drowning in your thoughts as you stared at the backpack you had stuffed a razor in.

        And you had waited two months to tell your mother anything about your plans, and those two months were filled with sobbing and pounding headaches. Because you hadn’t wanted to hurt her, even if everyone was saying that she had hurt you. Because you hadn’t wanted to hear her cry, even if you had been doing the same for a whole year.

        Because she never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body.

        So, you thought, what right did that give you to do something that would surely put her in pain? Because she had loved you, even if the ways were miniscule, and her actions were unforgivable. Because it seemed dismissible that you were scared every time someone joked about being drunk, and it seemed dismissible that you were disgusted every time a male flirted with you, and complimented your eyes, your lips, your body. Because it seemed dismissible that you felt lost and trapped in her home.

           You would’ve rather died than know that she was in pain, and that you were the reason. Because she was your mother, and someone had once told you that a parent’s love is much stronger than any other’s. Because she was your mother, and someone that had raised you since you were born, even if most times she was glad to have you taken care of by someone else. Because she was your mother. She never hit you, never kicked you, never laid a menacing hand on your body, and she had loved you. Above all, she told you that she was going to do destructive things to herself if you ever left her.

 

        She never hit you. Never kicked you. Never laid a menacing hand on your body. And maybe that was the worst abuse of all. Because if you had bruises, then maybe you would have had a clear excuse for the emotional trauma. Because if you had cuts that were not self-inflicted, then maybe you wouldn’t doubt if she had actually hurt you at all. Because if you had scars caused by her hand, then maybe it would’ve been easier to tell to someone.

        And maybe that was the worst abuse of all.

        Because when you put one foot in Hell, a suited demon hauled you to the front of the line. And when you put two feet in Hell, you were forced onto your knees in front of a man the others only called, “Sir.” And when you took four steps in Hell, enough to stand up and refuse to worship the King, there were many whispers. Because you had readily black eyes and no will to live. Because when you took eight steps in Hell, enough to stand nose-to-nose with a man you dubbed “Crowley,” instead of “Sir,” nobody could believe the lack of anger in the King’s eyes.

        And maybe that was the worst abuse of all. Knowing you had made a deal with this devil, and you had asked for only one year - one year - before he could send his hounds upon you to make your soul his slave. And maybe that was the worst abuse of all. Because although you told him you only wanted your mother to love you, she continued to act the same after he stole your first kiss.

        Maybe that was the worst abuse of all - knowing that she loved you, even as she destroyed every ounce of your humanity. Because she never hit you, never kicked you, never laid a menacing hand on your body. She had loved you.

         _But she had given birth to a monster._


	2. Chapter I: Anachronism

**Chapter I - Anachronism  
// 0.0**

 

_One Year Earlier…_

        Your fingers fiddled with the box, looking down at its contents. Your senior photo from high school, graveyard dirt, and a small bone supposedly from a black cat. You hadn’t sought out all the materials yourself, choosing to order them online and risk the postman looking at you a little funny, rather than breaking into a cemetery or killing a cat. Breathing deeply, you hoped everything was real before placing the lid overtop.

        The area around you was barely worth noting. You had found a backroad, coming to a four-lane intersection made of dirt and a layer of gravel. Trees of pine and aspen towered you on all sides, the ground around the driving path covered in straw and various, prickly shrubs. In Colorado, it was hard not to feel trapped unless you were standing on the edge of a cliff, because if you weren’t surrounded by forest you were cut off by mountains. And you weren’t much of a hiker.

        The sun was just falling beyond the high horizon, casting an orange glow across the sky and lighting the pebbles under your feet. It began to blind you as you placed the box down in a small hole you had dug towards the center of the crossroads. After covering the crate with dirt and rock, you stood.

        The world felt as if it was beginning to spin, and a layer of sweat coated your hairline. As you stared down at the freshly covered pit, you considered walking away. You considered forgetting this last resort and returning home. You could live the rest of your life without this, however painfully, or you could spend ten years, loving happily. You couldn’t fight the thought of your latter option sounding so much more desireable.

        “Daemon,” you started, voice shaking as you read out the messily scrawled words on a scrap of notebook paper, “esto subjecto... voluntati meae.” A tear slipped from your eye, and you tore the stationary in half. And then another half. And then another half. You couldn’t stand to look at it anymore, but the words were burned into your memory.

        You heard someone “tsk” over your shoulder and you could only manage a ragged breath in response. You were sure it was a demon. You speculated what they might look like. Moreso, you reflected on what they were capable of. All those things you had read suddenly terrified you, and the drawn depictions of their faces only deepened your fear.

        “You’re quite young to be playing with demons.” You swallowed, shoulders tightening at the masculine voice. “Or is this an old photo?”

        You barely turned your head to acknowledge the man, enough for him to notice, but not enough for you to see him. You knew you had to face him at some point, but not then. Not now. “It’s old.” You cleared your throat, trying to hide your anxiety. “But it’s the last one that was taken of me.”

        “Such a shame for an attractive face. Enlighten me, did you come to ignite your model career?”

         _‘No, no, no. Not my face.’_ Your fists clenched, raising to your eyes as you tried to calm down. _‘Why do they always compliment my face?’_

        “No,” you choked out. “Nothing like that.”

        Gravel crunched beneath his shoes, and you knew he was moving to stand in front of you. But he danced around your proximity as if one foot would send you running. It probably would. “What might you want then?” he purred, and you felt sick to your stomach.

 

         _“What do you want?” your mother inquired, motioning towards the shelves of stuffed animals and plastic figurines. You barely glanced at them, an answer already wetting your tongue._

_“Nothing,” you told her, and she seemed displeased. You didn’t understand her reaction. The last time you had visited the store, she had complained about you asking for too many things. Now, she appeared to be ready to fight your abstemious behavior._

_“Nothing?” She said it with an air of disbelief, knuckles tightening on the handle of the shopping cart. She let out a “hmph” before pushing forward and onto the next aisle, leaving you behind._

_Upon her absence, you greedily surveyed the toys with what few seconds you had before she called for you. As a child, you of course desired a new plaything to add to your collection, but you would’ve much rather seen your mother happy. Thinking back on her somewhat sour reaction, you pondered what it could be that delighted her, if it wasn’t your indifference to material things._

_You would soon learn that nothing you did could ever bring her joy._

 

        “Love,” you whispered, body shaking.

        “I prefer Crowley,” he quipped, but you ignored it.

        “I want my mother to love me.”

        He chuckled, almost heartily although it was brief. You removed your hands from your face, finding courage to look at him. What you saw surprised you, and also brought some relief.

        He did not have a contorted face of revealed muscle, or horns that looped around his ears. He did not have glowing eyes, nor a sharply-pointed tail. His features were rounded and handsome, scruff on his jaw paired with mischievous eyes. He wore a smirk like he ruled the world, and a suit that complimented it.

        You knew his type.

 

         _“(Y/N), grab your games and clothes. You’re spending the night at your godfather’s.” It was a command from your mother as she stood in the bathroom, layering on lipstick with a vague, purple hue. It made her look dead, and brought out the bags beneath her eyes. You never told her that - it was her favorite cosmetic. “(Y/N)? Did you hear me?” Her eyes traveled to you, her expression much different than it would have been had there not been a man in the apartment._

_“Yes,” you mumbled. She called your mumbling a bad habit._

_“Hurry,” she replied, and you moved to the living room._

_A new man sat on the couch, and you maneuvered far around him to approach the coffee table where your Gameboy lied. Upon reaching for it, a large hand grabbed it instead, pulling it away from your grasp. Irked, you looked up at the male._

_“I’m Vince,” he said, like it mattered to you. It didn’t, but you never forgot his name. He surveyed your small game system, shuffling it between his hands like a deck of cards. “Nice Gameboy.” You didn’t reply, staring blankly at his gelled hair and crisp suit. His collar was flared, three buttons undone under his loose tie. His face was confident, an eyebrow quirked as he returned your gaze. After a few moments of silence he shifted on the couch, extending his hand and offering the console back to you. “Don’t talk much, do you?”_

_His left hand was his dominant, you noted, and on his ring finger was a band of silver. You wanted to take that ring and shove it down your throat. You wanted to take that finger and break it. Maybe then his wife would be suspicious. Maybe then he would stop sneaking out and taking away your mother._

_You ripped the Gameboy out of his hand, glaring. With courage only ignited by childish ignorance, you squared your shoulders and wrinkled your nose. You thought you looked deadly, but to him, you probably hadn’t. “I’ll make you regret this,” you told him, and he smirked._

_“Kid, I -”_

_“She’ll never love you.”_

_His sneer never left as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t plan on it.”_

_“She only loves me,” you announced. “And I hate you.”_

_You remembered the words of one of the men you had previously met -_ “Yah don’t like the way they’re treatin’ you? Yah take your hands, curl ‘em like this. Then you grab their neck right ‘ere, and yah squeeze. Yah squeeze until they go all purple in the face. And yah don’t let go until they stop fightin’.”

         _“I’ll make you regret this,” you repeated, fingers curling. Before you had the chance to outstretch your hands, your mother entered the room. She looked between the both of you with an unreadable expression._

_“Are you ready?” she asked Vince, and he nodded. She glanced at you, but you gazed at the floor, watching his polished shoes rub across the carpet. He left a cigar burning in the ashtray._

 

        You suddenly felt small under his gaze, hugging yourself as you shuffled your feet together. “Is that funny?” you asked, and he shook his head slowly.

        “Are you sure that is what you want?”

        You puffed your chest suddenly, a wave of anger pushing upwards. Your eyes sharpened and narrowed, jaw tightening. “I only need one year.” That seemed to bewilder him, and his head tilted as if in thought. As it came out of your mouth, it surprised you too. One year? “ _One year,_ and all I want is for my mother to -” You choked on your bravery, and it left as quick as it came. You felt weak again, scared. “ - to love me.” You began to reconsider. Your soul for one year of happiness? Your inevitable death for one year of love? Your free ride to Heaven for one year of warmth?

        Your eyes seemed to film over as you realized how desperate you sounded - how desperate you were. It was as if you were still a young child whose body had grown but whose heart had not.

        “That is all?” He was examining you, contemplating. He seemed to be withholding something from you, but you didn’t care to ask. You just wanted it all to be over.

        “Yes,” you breathed, a grim smile stretching your lips. Tears fell from your eyes as he stepped forward. Your throat tightened when his palms cupped your cheeks, oddly gentle. “Thank you,” you sobbed, closing your lids tightly. He seemed to hesitate at that, his nose brushing your own for a moment. And then he pressed his lips to yours, sealing the deal.

        After another couple of seconds, you opened your eyes to see you were standing at the crossroads alone. Your muscles began to relax, but you soon found yourself falling to the ground. On hands and knees, you dry heaved. Between weeping and choking on your lack of lunch, you felt helpless. Although you had just been granted something you only dreamed of, your emotions swept up, overwhelming you.

 

         _“What do you want to eat?” Your stomach gurgled uncomfortably as you relaxed in the booth. Looking up at her made you realize how congested your head felt._

_“Nothing,” you answered, and rested your face on the table, your arms acting like pillows._

_She flicked your scalp, and you winced. “Sit up,” she ordered. But you didn’t - this was the first time she had talked to you that day. The last you checked, it was 4:30 PM._

_“I feel sick.”_

_“Sit up anyway. You can’t sleep at a restaurant.”_

_“Can I go to the car?”_

_“No, (Y/N). Get your head up or you’re not getting dessert.”_

_“I don’t want dessert.”_

_“(Y/N),” her tone was warning now, and it was what you had wanted. You straightened yourself, a bitter taste in the back of your throat. “What do you want to eat?”_

_“I told you, nothing.”_

_She huffed, examining your face before glancing at the man she had brought with her. He was now sitting at the bar, nursing a drink as he watched the football game. “Look, he’s offered to pay for our meal, and I’m not letting that go to waste.” You hoped your glare burned the back of his head. “Do you at least want this chocolate lava cake?” Glancing back at her, you saw she was holding a small sign. The lava cake was rather enticing to your eyes, but your stomach disagreed._

_“Sure,” you said anyway. Anything to make her happy._

_“Okay,” she sighed and gathered your menus. She always did helpful things like that for the waiters and waitresses - putting the menus in an easy pile, never leaving crumbs or trash on the table, stacking it all on a plate. She never did anything like that for you, it was always hard to receive her assistance. Hard to receive her attention, at least for more than a few minutes._

_Your tongue was feeling dry now, and your stomach did a flip. You considered taking a sip of your mother’s water, but you didn’t want her to get sick too. You rested your head on the table again, and she only exhaled. A moment of silence passed before her fingers were against your scalp. But this time, she ran them through your hair, attempting to soothe you. She continued until the food came, where you forced down the chocolatey treat as to not upset her._

_You noticed her dinner date had completely disappeared, and she left her own money on the table. A frown set on your face, she only loved you when nobody else was around._

_You threw up your meal in the middle of the night._

 

        You spent another half an hour lying in the gravel above your box as you wailed. When you started crawling back to your car, you slipped past the shreds of Latin and dug your palms into the rubble. Unable to find the strength for a commute, you curled into the driver’s seat and embraced yourself. Your whole body shuddered occasionally as you fell into a fitful sleep.

        In your dreams, you were still reluctant to return home.


	3. Chapter II - Windswept

**Chapter II - Windswept  
// 0.0**

 

_One Year Later..._

        You stood near the roaring bonfire, surrounded by your mother’s family and friends. Staring into the flames, you wondered if this was all you would be seeing after you were dead. Although the heat consumed you, you were shaking. You had long since accepted your fate, but you were still terrified of it.

        You hadn’t told anyone of the deal, and you weren’t sure they would have believed you anyway. Demons? Selling your soul? You probably would have laughed too. What made things worse was that after a 3AM study session, you learned Crowley was not only a crossroads demon, but the King of Hell. You had flirted briefly with the curious question of why the King had taken your deal instead of letting a lesser demon handle it. But after awhile, you didn’t care.

 

         _“Hey, knucklehead,” your mother called you. Her hands were covered by plastic gloves, and she was holding a small bottle. Her hair was a tangled wet bunch sitting on top of her head. She had just noticed you watching from the doorway, wondering what odd procedure she might be doing to herself now. “I’m changing my hair color.”_

_Your brows furrowed, and you tugged at your own (h/c) strands. Why wouldn’t she want to match you? “But I like (h/c),” you told her, and she smiled. Then, she shook her head._

_“It’s going to be a nice, pale blonde after this is done.”_

_You took a step forward to get a better look in the mirror, only to bump into the small trash can. Your gaze flicking downwards to look at the obstruction, you found a plastic tube that was dyed in a light shade of lilac - her purple lipstick. Although it had been her favorite and not yours, seeing it in the junk bin felt like an insult. Like a betrayal._

_“Who are you?” you asked her. She only laughed. It wasn’t a joke._

_“I met a man at QuikTrip, you know where we always get cappucino and hotdogs?” You nodded slowly, cautiously. “His name is Richard.”_

_“Is he married too?” After Vince, you had always been on high alert for wedding bands. You determined that if your mother was to be with anyone, it would not be a man who was already in love._

_Her features shifted, and something within her changed. Her jowls grew heavy as she frowned. “It doesn’t matter.” She ran her fingers through the mop of hair. “He works at a motorcycle shop, and that means he could take us on bike rides without your aunt and uncle.” You weren’t sure how you liked that, and seeing her tug at the thick strands of (h/c) that were steadily turning lighter, you realized something._

_“Are you changing because of him?” It felt like an innocent question. At your young age, it might have been. But she seemed distraught by it._

_Her eyes turned glossy and she looked down at you with a tight-lipped smile. She looked like she was trying too hard, and it killed you. As you wrapped your arms around her waist and stared into your reflection, she wiped away a tear with the back of her wrist._

_“It’s the price I pay for love,” she said._

 

        Within 365 days, nothing had changed. Crowley had taken your soul and practically given you nothing in return. He hadn’t warned you of your stupidity.  He hadn’t told you that your mother _had_ loved you. Like a true salesman, he avoided the roadblocks and the questions that would lead you to doubt. He fooled you into thinking that a deal had been the ultimate answer, but you were left rotting.

        And now you were here. Sunken cheeks and apparent ribs. Your body had reacted negatively to your whirlwind of emotions. As if you had lost something you held dearly, you had gone through the five stages of grief. You were in the final phase, acceptance, and it taken the full year to come to terms with everything. It almost felt like you had wasted all that time, or it hadn’t been a year at all, but your mother had switched out the 2012 calendar for 2013. Counting the days until your last breath tore you apart, and yet, it was also somewhat of a relief. Because when day fell to night, you were brought closer to being gone and out of your mother’s way. You were closer to bringing her happiness - a joy unearthed by your absence.

        Tracing your lips with a finger, you breathed slowly as if savoring your last inhales and exhales of oxygen. The forest smelled of fresh pine and clouding smoke. Occasionally, an ember would crack and leap at someone’s feet, but they would quickly stomp it out. Everyone chatted with one another while you remained silent. You were trying to lock their faces and voices into your memory, the one thing you were sure to keep in Hell. Your stepfather, Henry, would glare over at you every few minutes, a silent command to start socializing. You never listened, keeping to yourself as you prayed he would go to Heaven upon his death. You didn’t want to have to talk to him in Hell. He was already annoying enough on Earth.

 

         _Glass shattered as Henry held the phone in both hands, bringing it over his knee. And as if the fragmented screen wasn’t bad enough for him, he whipped it against your shelf, effectively smashing it in two pieces. You cried as your mother yelled, staring at the wreckage that used to hold all your contact information. All your conversations. All your calls._

_Everything you had of your real father was now gone, left in those ruins. Your hands shook as you watched him clasp the two hunks in his palm, his brows almost disappearing into his eyes. You couldn’t tell if he was angry, or if he was just following your mother’s directions. If he was just acting based on your mother’s emotion. At times you wondered if the two of them ever acted on their own accord._

_When they both slammed shut the door to your bedroom, you had curled up on your bed, hugging your diary. You considered writing down everything that had happened, but you had reached your boiling point. Unlatching the cover, you began to tear out all the pages. Each one was filled with every incident your mother and step-father had been a part of. Every time they misjudged you. Every time they blamed you. Every time they got drunk. Every time they gave you nightmares._

_In your hateful stupor, you disregarded the paper cuts and continued to shred all the pages until there was nothing left but a ragged spine. Wilting against your sheets and a pile of scrap, you dissolved into tears. The next morning when you woke up, you could hardly open your eyes._

_Henry drove you to school, but parked quickly and grabbed your arm before you could make your escape. “We’re sorry,” he confessed, but he couldn’t look you in the eye. “We’ll get you a new phone, but it will be a while. We don’t have the money right now.” Your jaw tightened - they never had the money, they were always too busy wasting it on two 12 packs of alcohol and a container of vodka. “Meanwhile, you can call your dad on your mother’s phone.”_

_You could barely manage a nod before you grabbed your backpack and shoved your way out the car. You made sure to shut your door a little harder than normal, not looking back. He could apologize all he wanted. You knew he was never sorry._

_If he had been sorry, he would’ve stopped after the first incident._

 

        You checked the wristwatch you had bought a month prior to this trip, dread filling you as you realized you only had an hour left. Your hands began to shake, but you willed your legs to move. Walking towards a small group of friends, you told everyone that you were going for a walk. They warned you about staying out past sunset and you forced a chuckle, morbidly joking about a death caused wolves. They laughed. “There are no wolves in Colorado,” they said. In an hour, they might beg to differ.

        Before delving into the forest, you moved to speak with your mother. She was sitting in an old, dirtied camping chair, a Budlight in her hand as she nodded along to one of her girl friend’s complaints. You remember her saying that she preferred Budlight over Budweiser or Corona, but it all tasted the same to you - like poison.

        “Hey,” you poked her shoulder, “can I talk to you?”

        “What do you need?” she asked dryly, eyes blank as she looked up at you.

        “I…” You tried to think of something, but your mind was jumbled with the depictions of your death. Red eyes peered from a nearby bush, begging for your attention. “Can you show me where that portable toilet is?” you requested, struggling not to look directly into the fiery gaze.

        She furrowed her eyebrows, almost appearing disappointed. “Yeah, just give me a moment.” She turned back to her friend, but you laid a hand on her shoulder.

        “Mom, please. I really have to go.”

        For a moment, worry glinted in her eyes, like she knew something wasn’t right. But it disappeared instantly. “Mhm.” She told her friend that she would be right back before setting her beer in a cupholder and standing up. She nodded her head in a certain direction and began walking, you trailed behind her.

        It was a silent trip, and you found yourself hidden by shrubbery and trees soon enough. A creek flowed near you, drowning out everyone’s voices as you neared it. You surveyed her bleached hair as she maneuvered through the brush, the way it shined in the light of the setting sun. Her slightly overweight body easily followed the dirt path to the toilet, and while you often heard her complaining about her figure, you never minded. It was a part of her, and you were convinced it only added to her beauty.

        Once you laid your eyes on the makeshift toilet, she turned to you. “Think you can find your way back?” she asked, and you nodded.

        “I have something to say,” you mumbled.

        “What?” She leaned closer to hear you.

        Your heart throbbed suddenly, nose warming and tears filling your eyes. “I love you,” you choked out. And you so desperately wanted to hug her, but you weren’t sure she would accept the affection.

        “(Y/N), what’s wrong?”

        You covered your face with your hands, weeping quietly. “I - I - I love you!” A sob escaped your lips. “Even though you’ve hurt me.” Cautiously, her arms began to wrap around your shoulders and you pressed your face into her camouflage jacket. “Don’t you know how much you’ve hurt me? I hate the person you’ve become… Who I-… I’ve become.” Your fingers trembled uncontrollably, and you couldn’t help but dance on your feet. “You’re always so into your beer. You only look at me when you need to complain.” Your lungs constricted, and it was getting hard to breathe. “I don’t think you’ll ever be sober. I… don’t believe in you. And you - you…” Your teeth gritted, eyes clenching. “You make me think that I shouldn’t believe in myself. You - I… I can’t! You...”

        Minutes crept gradually and you heard her sniff. She breathed unevenly, now. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. And although her voice was broken, you shook your head.

        “No, you’re not,” you cried. “You’re n-not sorry. Y-You were n-never - never sorry.” Your chest convulsed, and snot began to run from your nose. “But I love you anyway. I love y-you even if you’re.. you’re not sorry.”

        Reeling away, you checked your watch again. 30 minutes.

        “(Y/N) -”

        “Please go.” You couldn’t look at her anymore, you didn’t want to remember her face. If you remembered her face, Hell would use that against you. They would use her against you. “I’m fine, please just go.”

        She hesitated, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. But she was soon traversing back to the camp, steps now uncalculated. She tripped over a root before she disappeared from your vision.

        You took a moment to gather your wits, grabbing a bit of toilet paper from the roll someone had slid onto a tree branch. Dabbing at your tears, you had to wonder what a mess your corpse would like now. You mopped the snot from your upper lip, then discarded the tissue into the bowl. You took a breath from your now clear nostrils and decided to follow the sound of the creek - that would surely be a beautiful place to die.

 

         _Panic. Panic was all you knew as you struggled to stay above water, arms flailing as your toes failed to meet any tile in the five foot range. Although it was a public pool and you could see people swimming in the distance, they all seemed to be ignoring you. It left you trying to fend for yourself, kicking and scratching at the air._

_After a struggle that practically exhausted you, you had managed to paddle frantically to a poolside bar. And while the bartender looked at you a little funny when you hung onto the stool, you ignored it, breathing heavily. It was as if everyone had been in their own world, unknowing to the fact that you had felt so close to death._

_When you regained a bit of your energy, you quickly moved to hang onto the wall, pulling yourself up onto the concrete, not minding the way it scratched your skin. You would’ve risked scabs over drowning any day. With the warm ground underneath you, the weight seemed to finally make itself known and you began bawling. Weakly, you stood up, beginning to trot back to your mother as you clutched your arms close._

_She barely listened to your sob-wrecked story, only offering you a Shrek towel and a lounge chair to sit in. While you were destroyed by the whole incident, she seemed unaffected, typing away on her flip phone. Few women passed by with their own children, looking at you with pity. You let them. If your own mother couldn’t feel sorry for you, everyone else could._

_So you cried until you couldn’t anymore. She didn’t care._

 

        Pushing through dead bushes, your feet wobbled against the large rocks. While trying to reach the middle of the flowing water to perch upon a boulder, you swore you saw the reflection of a monster in the flood and gasped, slipping. You fell into the freezing stream, but your main concern was what had been standing that close. Peering around, you found nothing. You let out a somber laugh at your paranoia, lifting your wet hands to brush back some hair from your face.

        While the frigid temperature of the water was intense, you couldn’t find the will to move. Freezing in the middle of the current filled you with adrenaline, heightening your senses. You curled into a tight ball, shivering while you checked your watch. You sighed, noticing the glass was now cracked. Through the obstruction, you could barely make out the time. 5:50. You had 7 minutes.

        Running a hand through your damp locks, you took in your surroundings for the last time. Towering trees, bleached rocks, brown algae and green moss. Dead logs lined the rock-ribbed shore while boulders created divides in the flow. You could hear small knocks from within the woods, most likely a squirrel, bird, or a pinecone hitting the ground. You pondered if this creek was a popular watering spot for deer or elk, and if that attracted any bears. By the tracks that scattered on past the bank, you supposed it could be. You refused to look at the sky, it would remind you of what you gave up. Of what you could've had.

        A growl echoed suddenly, and your head snapped to find the source, heart racing. You took a steadying breath, knowing it was one of the hounds. There was no use panicking or fighting if you didn’t want to live.

        Glancing at your watch, it was 5:56. You had one minute before they lept out, tearing at your flesh. You lied down in compliance, your whole body submerging into the rushing water. Even while immersed, you heard the howling. You lifted your wrist.

3… 2… 1…

        Breathing out for the last time, you watch bubbles obscure your vision and felt a searing pain in your arm. Without a chance to contemplate the agony, crimson stained the creek and you got lost in all red. You were so very tired.

 

         _“You don’t deserve this, even if that’s what you’re convincing yourself.”_

_You fiddled with hem of your jacket sleeves, hiding the irritated lines on your skin. “What makes you so sure?”_

_“Have you ever paid attention to yourself?” Your closest friend rubbed circles in your back, staring out at the empty football field. “You could’ve let all of this destroy you, you could’ve become like Mallory - or worse, Travis.”_

_You glared at her. “Glenda, we shouldn’t talk about Travis like he was a bad guy. I mean… after what happened, it just feels wrong.”_

_Her jaw tightened, eyes seeming far off. She didn’t like when people used her name, claiming that she hated it. You thought that it was beautiful. “I think he got what was coming to him. A snot like him should have never got that much recognition just because he sung a few bar songs.”_

_Elbowing her, you forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “He sure kept my mom busy.”_

_Glenda rubbed her face with her hands. “See? And you can make jokes like that. You could have let it completely wreck you, but instead you sit here and make fun of it all.”_

_Your face softened, and you turned away. Staring into the hills surrounding the field, many thoughts flooded into your head. “It’s not really funny… But it makes me feel better if I just laugh at it, pretend like it is.”_

_The circles on your back slowed, fingertips pressing into your spine. “I’m not sure that’s healthy,” she whispered. You shrugged._

_Silence followed as you both pondered what to say next. The breeze was light, barely tugging at your hair as the sun began to set. In the distance, you could see deer trotting up the hills, dangerously close to the highway._

_“Hey, Glen,” you started, bringing back her attention. “With Travis… Do you really think a bear got him?”_

_“Sounds like bullshit to me,” she muttered. But her eyes glittered afterwards, fascinated by the mystery of it all. “Could be a cover up to a murder.”_

_Your brows furrowed. “Why would people cover that up?”_

_She threw her hands in the air as if the answer was obvious. You smirked at how passionate she was getting. “God knows how many rednecks would freak and whip out their guns at the mention of a serious crime.”_

_“Mhm,” you hummed. “I think he made a deal with someone. Couldn’t pay ‘em back.”_

_“How scandalous.”_

_“He just got pretty and popular way too quick,” you noted. “Seems like he had overnight surgery on his vocal cords.”_

_“Remember counting all the mothers that swooned when he sung the pledge? And he was only a couple years older than us.” She shivered. “Gross.”_

_“If you could do something like that, would you?” The question wouldn’t stop pestering you, and it slipped from your lips._

_“Like what?”_

_“Making a deal, wishing for the thing you wanted most. Then you wake up and you have it.” Glenda eyed you cautiously, and she removed her hand from your back. She must have noticed your empty staring._

_“What’s the catch?” Her gaze never left your face, desperate for an answer._

_“After a while, you realize you can’t get rid of the debt. You end up like Travis.” Your head turned to met her pale eyes. “Dead.”_

_Her nose wrinkled and she retracted as if she had smelled something unsavory. Tucking her hands between her knees, she shook her head. “Nah, I wouldn’t die just because I wanted something.” Your breath was beginning to create steam as the temperature fell with the sun. “Would you?” You thought could feel eyes on your back, and your shoulders tensed at the sensation. You didn’t dare turn around._

_Slowly, you nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “If it could give me a loving mother,” you swallowed back the knot in your throat, “I think I would.” Your face hardened after a moment. It wasn’t a matter of “thinking”, no. Internally, you always knew._

_You_ knew _you would._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Searching up the meaning of names may provide interesting details.


End file.
